Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  He looked at Daniel, thinking that one of his tattoos was pretty appropriate right now, ‘Three can keep a secret if two are dead’, because Daniel looked like the weak fucking link here. He wasn’t aware of the lengths to which the club had gone over the years to keep Mica safe. This was simply an extension of what they’d already done, but one word from the hockey player to the wrong ears and everything could go to shit. “Are you with us, man?” he asked, and watched as Daniel had a physical reaction to the question, shivering and folding his arms tightly across his chest as he nodded.

  Mason stepped away, calling Blackie to extend his thanks, and Slate edged over towards the trailer, wanting to make sure no one saw anything. He remembered the mess in the living quarters, and moved up to start sorting through the girls’ clothes, putting the few clean things on a bunk, and separating the rest into a wash pile.

  Slate’s phone rang, and he answered it, seeing Blackie’s name on the screen, “Row fifteen, space three-oh-one,” and waited on confirmation before hanging up. About a half-hour later, a dark van drove up, with three members of Blackie’s club inside. Slate stood, walking over to greet them. “You Slate?” came the question from the leader of the group.

  “Yeah, Slate, Chicago Rebel Wayfarers. This is my president, Mason, and our Sergeant at Arms, Tug.”

  The leader introduced himself, “JD,” and then gestured with a thumb at the two men at his back, “Mouse and Devil. Y’all are a long way from Chicago, man. Welcome to fucking Texas.”

  Getting straight to business, Mouse spoke up from where he stood behind JD, “Blackie said you had some baggage we’d be happy to take care of for you. He didn’t specify the condition, though. Got any preferences?”

  “Yeah, end of the line would be good, man.” Mason stepped up beside Slate and continued, “Not particular on the method of arrival, long as the destination is the same.” The three men nodded, glancing at each other.

  “You got it,” said JD. “Devil, situate the van, please, sir. Let’s get our baggage and get gone.”

  Slate moved one of the horses to block the view from across the way, while Nelms was retrieved from inside the trailer and bundled into the van. Mouse raised a finger to his brow, nodded at Mason, and then Devil drove the van away into the night.

  16 -

  Out of mind

  Days later, Slate was back in Chicago, trying to settle into some kind of routine. He’d been crashing in his room at the clubhouse, not wanting to face the quiet in his house. One of the club mammas had gone over and straightened up, chucking food from the fridge, tidying and getting a layer of dust off everything, so it was clean. But, he found that the house was too damn big after weeks of living squeezed into the tiny quarters at the front of Essa’s trailer.

  She was constantly on his mind, and it didn’t help she sent him texts and pictures all the time. She sent pictures of Mason and Mica, her and Mica, her and Molly, and finally, one of only her he saved onto his phone. Someone else had taken the picture, and her hair was a little wild, curling out from underneath her hat, which was shoved tightly down on her head. Her brown eyes were sparkling, and she had the widest smile on her face. Slate reached out a finger, trailing it down the screen as he closed his eyes.

  He wouldn’t do this, shouldn’t want her…couldn’t need her like this. He was not the right kind of guy for her, and he wouldn’t be the reason for her getting hurt, but he kept the picture on his phone, and he sent her one of him clowning for the camera.

  Sitting behind the bar in Jackson’s, he looked up as the outside door opened, letting in a blustery wind. It was early spring in Chicago, and the Windy City was living up to its name. Slate grinned as he recognized the men walking in, Jason Spencer and Gary Millson; they were from Daniel’s hockey team, and were just rowdy enough to be fun without needing too much intervention.

  “Hey, man,” he called to Jason, watching as they altered their direction to come to where he was sitting. Slate held out a hand, stood, and shook with them as they all settled onto barstools.

  “What y’all doin’ in Jackson’s on a weekday?” he asked. “Isn’t today normally practice?”

  “Motherfucker, we made the playoffs; we don’t have practice for four days, and so life...is...gooood,” Jason drawled, laughing.

  “Fucking playoffs, that’s great, man,” Slate said, nodding. “How’s Daniel doin’ these days?”

  There was silence from the two men, then, “Not good, Slate, not good at all. He’s still crawling out of a bottle every morning, and his skating has gone to complete shit. He’s gonna get himself killed if he keeps it up. Do you know when Mica is coming back?”

  He shook his head. “She might not come back, from what I hear. Mason said she’s pretty entrenched back home now. She’s making up for lost time with her family, spending lots of time with her sister and cousin.” He stood and stretched, stepping behind the bar, asking, “Draft?” and saw the men nod.

  Grabbing three chilled mugs, he pulled the beer expertly, leaving barely an inch of head on each. He continued, “I get the feeling Mason will be coming back soon; maybe if she’s down there alone, she can get her head together. I don’t think she ever got a chance to tell Daniel what happened, you know—what really happened and why she left him the way she did? I thought they were getting back together for about a minute in Houston, but then he turned and walked away from her.”

  Jason looked at him, canting his head a little sideways. “What the fuck happened in Texas, man? Daniel didn’t only walk away from Mica, he didn’t even stay for the exhibition game, and he’s been rocky since. For that matter, what happened with Mica? Why the hell did she leave him like that? We’re his friends, and we...I’m worried about him.”

  Slate blew out a heavy breath. “Man, Mica had some shitty stuff in her life before she came to Chicago. A motherfucker of a father, a brother whose contact info is in her phone as ‘BastardSon’, and an ex-boyfriend who fucking defined the word evil. That ex made credible threats against Daniel’s family, unless she agreed to leave him. So, because she liked him—liked his mom and brothers—she left him.” Slate shrugged. “There’s more to it, of course, but that’s the general notion. She kept it to herself for weeks, and tried to keep us Rebels at arm’s length too, but we were all used to fighting that fucking shit with her, so it just didn’t work as well on us.

  “Daniel, on the other hand, fucking let her walk away,” he shrugged again. “He should have picked her up and carried her back, but he gave her space. That shit made it look like she didn’t matter, or as if she wasn’t worth fighting for. So now, we have a clusterfuck, and it’s his loss…and it’s her loss. Mason’s loss too, because he’s caught in the fucking middle of it. Fuck, my loss, because I have to keep shit going here without Mason’s help. Fucking everyone’s loss, I guess.”

  A few regulars drifted in, and soon, Jason and Gary were deep in conversation with some of the Rebel members they’d come to know from frequenting the bar. Jackson’s had become the unofficial bar for the Mallets hockey team, and the big athletes and hardass bikers mixed surprisingly well together.

  Jason was interested in getting a bike, and Digger was trying to broker him a deal for a Fat Boy. Slate’s ears perked up; he’d had to retire the Indian several years ago, now a Fat Boy was his current ride, and he liked it. “Jason, a Fat Boy is a good bike, man. Go around back and check out mine.” He tossed his keys over, ignoring the silence that fell over the bar. “Don’t dump it, motherfucker, or I’ll kill you.”

  Jason caught the keys and looked from his hand holding them, up to Slate’s face, and then back down. Slate was aware everyone knew him to be very particular who he allowed to touch his scoot, and he’d never let anyone else ride it. “Fucking first time for everything,” Slate muttered under his breath.

  His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket to see Essa’s name on the caller ID. He stepped into the storeroom behind the bar, and answered, “Hey, you, what’s up?”


  There was some static on the line, and then he heard her voice, low and husky. “Slate, how’s Chicago?”

  He caught an edge in her voice, and knew this wasn’t a social, chatty kind of call. “What’s up, little girl? Something got you wired?”

  She gave a half-sob, laughing wildly. “Mason is leaving, Slate. He’s leaving, and she’s staying. She doesn’t even seem to care, but I know that she should care. She should give a crap about what’s happening, but she doesn’t.” Essa took in a whooshing breath. “She’s even shutting Molly out, and I know from talking to Mason that she’s ignoring her business, too. Is she going to be okay? Tell me she’s going to be okay, Slate. I couldn’t stand it if me coming to Chicago was the cause of all this. It feels like it’s all falling apart and it’s my fault.”

  “Shhhhh, baby girl,” he murmured into the phone, “shhhh now, none of this is your fault. You did nothing wrong; in fact, you are the main reason that things can now begin moving forward again. Mica is simply...stuck, I think. She’d been held tight in the same place for so long, because she had to protect everyone she loved, and now that pressure is gone. So now, there’s nothing holding her back, except her own fear. You have to remember—she’s lived with the fear for a long, long time, and even though we all know how strong and gutsy she is, in the mirror, she only sees the girl she was after Ray got his hands on her.”

  He heard Essa sniffling, and then she asked, “Will she ever be okay again, Slate?”

  He smiled, knowing she’d hear it in his voice. “Yeah, she will be. Once she gets past this little hump, she’ll be good to go again.”

  Essa sniffled again, and then her voice changed, and got tense instead of emotional. “Did you know Uncle Trent is missing?”

  Trent Scott was Mica’s father; Slate knew the fucker’s name. “No, I didn’t know that. What happened?” He held his breath, because he had a good idea of what was going on. It was one of two reasons he thought Mason had stayed in Texas so long, and the other was simply being there to support Mica.

  “No one knows; he was just gone from the ranch one day. Michael is there, and is keeping things going, but he won’t be able to for long; he’s never clicked with the life,” she said casually.

  “How’s Mica seem about her dad being missing?” he queried, wondering if Mica had any inkling.

  “Oh, she’s fine about that. She’s fine about everything, but she’s not okay. That doesn’t make sense, but it’s the best way I can explain.”

  He heard frustration in her words, and soothed her again, “Shhhh, little girl.” Taking a breath, he asked softly, “Do you think you’d ever visit Mica again, if she comes back up here?” He waited on her answer, not sure which one he wanted. He wanted her, but couldn’t see her fitting into the club, and he didn’t want to get into the same kind of situation Mason had with Mica. He needed to cut ties, let this gal go find herself someone who fit her life, someone her own age, who wanted the same things she did.

  “Yeah, I’d come visit,” she said softly on a breath, nearly inaudible. In the same breathy tone, she said, “Slate, I gotta go. Thanks for talking to me. I think you’re right; she’ll sort herself out eventually.”

  “Okay, little girl…be safe,” he told her, and he waited for her to hang up, putting his phone into his pocket slowly once they’d been disconnected. She’d wound her way around his heart, and he feared the emotional toll, since he knew he had to let go of the idea of her. He wasn’t the kind of man she needed; there was nothing soft about him anymore.

  ***

  Several weeks later, Slate was sitting and listening to Mason talk about his plans, which had arisen from a recent confrontation he had with Daniel. Mason said, “I told him how much she’d taken on herself, made sure he knew the entire fucking history and why she felt she had to leave. Asshat couldn’t see past his own hurt, even when I told him plainly enough that if I go down alone, I’m not gonna be looking out for his best interests anymore.” Mason took a breath, looking over at Slate, “I love her, man. I want her back up here…in my life.” Slate sighed and told him, “Yeah, but she loves Daniel.”

  “She doesn’t think there’s anything here for her anymore, not with him at least. He pretty much broke that shit in Houston, so I’m gonna do my damnedest to convince her that there’s enough here to make her come back, that what we have is enough. Tug said she wants to learn to ride, I’ll buy her a fucking bike and teach her myself. Denzie has a Road King that I want, and he’s got a Sportster he’ll throw in for a couple hundred since it’s for Mica. I’ll argue her back, bribe her back…any way I can get her, Slate,” Mason groaned and looked away.

  Rocking his head back against the wall of the clubhouse meeting room, Slate asked seriously, “You think she’s into riding on her own now, man? Road trips can be brutal, are you sure you want her first introduction to be not only a thousand-mile trip, but one where she’s learning how to ride? I like the idea of getting her a scoot—she’d look hot on a Sportster—but damn, Mason. You are hoping for a fuckuva lot from her.”

  He paused for a minute, letting that sink in to his brother’s head, then switched gears, saying, “I get you wanting that Road King, man. Denzie has a sweet ride. I didn’t know he was up for selling it, but glad it’s coming up here. We’re still looking for a Fat Boy for Jason; he’s wanting a pretty bike to impress DeeDee.” Slate yawned; fuck, he was tired.

  Mason’s head came up. “He sniffing around Winger’s old lady? She okay with that? It’s been a while since Winger passed, man, and about time she moved on, but a hockey guy? I’d hoped she’d find someone and stay in the club; she was a solid old lady.”

  Slate nodded. “She seems to be encouraging him, at least what I’ve seen. Jackson’s is the only place I’ve ever seen them interact, and she’s only here for a couple of weeks anyway.”

  “Fucking DeeDee, man. I should get Mica introduced to her, especially if she’s moving out of the club. Would give them both something to have—kinda halfway, you know? Plus, if I can get Mica riding, she and DeeDee could run around together.” Mason paused. “Fuck that; forget I said anything about them riding around. Mica learns how to ride, we’ll need to have escorts lined up.”

  “Fuck me,” Slate snarled, “security detail still, Mason? Isn’t that taking this too far? The threat has been handled, man…Nelms is neutralized. Why should there still be a security detail?”

  Mason thumped his hand on the tabletop, silencing Slate’s argument. “Because she’s our fucking princess, and while that gives her a lot of protection, it also puts a target on her ass. So until we are goddamn certain there’s no blowback from anything associated with Mica, she gets a fucking security detail. You get me, brother?”

  Slate rubbed his hands over his face, pushing them through his hair, leaving it standing at all angles from his head. “I get you, Prez. I’m on it.”

  ***

  Standing on Mica’s little back porch, Slate stood with his hands on his hips, watching as the growing crowd helped put the final touches on the party to welcome Mica and Mason home. He felt pretty proud of himself; this was the first party he’d been in charge of, and he knew he’d enlisted the right help. Digger and Daniel’s guy, Carter, had been in charge of the beer. There were several kegs set up and ready go to. Road Runner was handling the food, and that man lived for cooking.

  Jess had proven valuable too. She’d opened the phonebook and called a dozen important Chicago businesspeople, who then told another dozen, and so on. It was like a crazy game of telephone, but the result was more than a hundred people milling around the connected backyards of Mason and Mica’s houses. Nearly the whole Mallets hockey team had come, and Slate had seen two of the Rupert siblings earlier, but no Daniel yet.

  Most of the Rebel brothers from the three nearest chapters were in attendance, but there was also a welcome, tension-less exchange with outside clubs’ members who’d come. He’d seen Bones, Shades, Joker, VD, Six-Pack, and Ratman wandering around, all from the
Skeptics MC. They’d offered nothing but respect to him and his brothers, and were waiting patiently for Mason to show.

  Relations were good with the Dominos MC too, and their president Hawk had shown up with his old lady, Houlihan. She was a curvy brunette with a smart mouth. Hot Lips also happened to hold a Master’s Degree in Special Education, and was in high demand at the local schools. Riding behind them were four full-patch members; it was the first time Slate had met any of them, but he shook and exchanged greetings before passing them off to Tug to wrangle.

  He muttered to himself, “Fuck me,” looking at the number of bikes parked along the street and alleyway. Tilting his head, he closed his eyes, biting his bottom lip. Straining to see if what he thought he’d heard was real, he became convinced that over the low roar of the crowd, he could hear the welcome, sweet sound of bikes coming from a couple of blocks away.

  Jumping up on the railing surrounding the porch, he bellowed at the crowd, “Here they come. Pipe the fuck down, people.” Making sure his message was heard and being passed along, he jumped down and yelled at Tats and Hoss to make a lane in the alley for when the bikes arrived. They moved to the street, shifting people out of the way as Mica came into view. She was riding along in front of Mason—he’d granted her pride of place—and she had the biggest shit-eating grin on her face.

  Whispering quietly to himself, he muttered, “Put your feet down, put your feet down, put down your fucking feet…” until he saw her idle in and brake to a stop, putting down her feet to balance her bike. “Thank fuck,” he breathed, seeing Mason pull in beside her and motion her to park up here by the house.

  Nodding his head, he watched her roll the bike up to the pad, then back into what was now officially her parking place for the Sportster. She put down the kickstand and killed the bike, slowly taking off her helmet and looking around in what looked like surprise and awe at the people crowding around.